The doctor looked at me for confirmation. I shook my head, no.

“What is your last name?” persisted the doctor, and Stanley told him , “Stroganoff.” I shook my head no again. “Your name is Igor Stroganoff?” said the doctor. We were both smiling, as Stan said, “Yes, my name is Igor Stroganoff.

In the morning, Stanley once more remembered his real name, but I decided, then and there that Igor Stroganoff was a name that deserved a story to go with it. So my column today will consist of two songs I wrote for Stan, the first in the hospital and the second after he died, and a story. I asked my friend Joellen Lapidus, who is both a musician and a therapist what she would say to me if I were her patient, and she answered, “I would tell you that Stanley is worth all the pain you are feeling.” She was right. He was.

WHERE WERE YOU, LOVE?

(a song for Stanley)

Where were you, love, for a minute or so?

I saw your lips moving–your voice was so low,

Were you humming a song that you learned long ago?

Where were you, love, for a minute or so?

Where were you, love, when you left for a while?

Were you taking a stroll along memory’s mile?

Were you back with your babies? I saw a sweet smile,

Where were you, love, when you left for a while?

Where were you, love, when you left me today?

Were you with an old sweetheart you met on your way?

Were you happier there? Do you wish you could stay?

Where were you, love, when you left me today?

Where are you, love, have you found a new land?

You’re so far away, though I’m holding your hand.

If your pain is too great, love, then I’ll understand,

Where are you, love, have you found a new land?

THE JOURNEY OF IGOR STROGANOFF

In the quiet little village of Ayel, in a land far away, lived an old sculptor who carved magical animals from wood. His name was Igor Stroganoff and he could be found, every day, year after year, carving away in his sunlit studio, and humming a tune as he worked.

But today, Igor was not carving. Today, the courtyard of Igor Stroganoff’s cottage was filled with all the people of the village. They stood as still as statues, even the children, because, today, Igor Stroganoff was preparing to go on a very long journey to a place where he had never been. Today, Igor Stroganoff was dying.

Almost in whispers, the villagers began to speak of their beloved friend. No one noticed a big wooden pelican, waiting in a shadowy corner of the courtyard.

“When my rabbit ran away,” said a small girl, “Igor carved me a rabbit from a big piece of maple wood. It took him a long time and when it was finished, it looked just like my lost rabbit.”

“When my wife was ill” said a sad -faced man, “Igor carved her a beautiful bird with an open red beak. My wife looked at her bird all day long, and sometimes thought she could hear it singing.”

“My children loved to visit Igor’s studio,” said a young mother. “Igor told them wonderful tales about his animals and said that the leopard and the gazelle would dance together every midnight, and all the animals would jump off their pedestals and join in.”

“I was too poor to buy one of Igor’s sculptures,” said a woman with white hair, “but Igor knew I loved his elegant giraffe, and one Christmas morning, I found it standing at my front door. It had a little card around it’s neck and the card said, ‘I have decided to live here with you. Merry Christmas from Igor.'”

Inside the cottage, Igor Stroganoff’s wife and daughters stood next to his bed. His older daughter, Linroge, spoke to her father, sobbing, “Papa, you must not die! Your grandson wants you to get well, and come to our house for dinner and play chess with him.” And his younger daughter, Agner, said, softly, “Papa, please get well, and I will write you a poem for your birthday that will speak of the many wonderful things you have taught me, and how much I love you.” Then Alidorce, the wife of Igor Stroganoff, peered out the window and said, “Look, my girls, the courtyard is filled with people!”

“Why are they here, at such a sad, and private time?” asked the daughters and Alidorce answered, “They are here because they love your father, and have come to wish him Godspeed on his last journey. And they are welcome.” Alidorce opened the window wide, and one by one, all the people of the village came close, and as they passed by, they whispered their loving farewells to Igor Stroganoff. Soon the courtyard was empty again. Only the wooden pelican remained in the corner. And only when Igor’s wife and daughters finally fell asleep in their chairs, did the pelican move slowly to the open window. Igor lay on his pillow, smiling, his eyes wide open.

“Igor Stroganoff,” whispered the pelican., “What are you doing here? You must come with me to the beautiful new studio we have for you, with animals and birds that you have not yet carved, waiting inside.”

“You want me to come with you now?” asked Igor Stroganoff? “Is it time for my journey?”

“Yes” replied the pelican, “Come with me right now, in the quiet of the evening, to the new land that is waiting for you.”

In the morning his wife and daughters discovered that Igor Stroganoff had disappeared, along with one of his favorite sculptures, a pelican. But the sun was bright and warm, and it shone down with joy on the courtyard trees, where a hundred birds were singing their songs of welcome to another new day.

IT TAKES A LITTLE LONGER

You were the first light of each morning-

The first, soft voice of dawn-

A litany of I love you,

To tell me night was gone.

You were the songbird of my waking,

And the first dance of my day.

So it takes a little longer when you love this way,

It takes a little longer when you love this way.

You were the first sweet sip of coffee,

The first rich bite of bread,

The memory of the magic

Of the night before, in bed.

You were the silver song inside me

Every minute of my day,

So it takes a little longer when you love this way,

It takes a little longer when you love this way.

You were the djembe drum deep in me

Beating counterpoint to rain,

The water for my every thirst,

The salve for all my pain.

You were the only God I knew

Who listened when I’d pray,

So it takes a little longer when you love this way…

It takes a little longer when you love this way.

Uncle Ruthie is the producer and host of HALFWAY DOWN THE STAIRS, heard every Saturday morning at 8:00am on KPFK Radio, 90.7FM. She also teaches music at The Blind Children’s Center in Los Angeles. Ruthie does concerts for children, families and adults, as well as teacher workshops. She teaches beginning piano, and especially welcomes students with special needs. She can be reached at 310- 838-8133, or at uncleruthie@aol.com.